


If the Fates Allow

by sp_oops



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 14x08 and all that happens to jack, Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, F/M, Pining, Schmoop, Sex, Vaginal Fingering, holiday fic, oh god theres so much schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp_oops/pseuds/sp_oops
Summary: Christmas Eve. Lights, snow, nog—and the chance to finally gank Michael. The archangel Apocalypse-World transplant made this year a living hell, and you’re ready for vengeance. You’re also determined to do something about your ever-growing feelings for Dean. But between his Michael possession, everyone’s worry over Jack, and your own fear of rejection, you’re not sure the universe will ever give you the chance. But hey, with the holidays and a big win—who knows what might happen.(Takes place during a slightly-altered season 14. Some spoilers.)





	If the Fates Allow

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god this one is angstier than the others and I don't know how I feel about it but it's here it's happening have yourself a merry little ficmas imma be back to edit it more once i sleep <3

 

 

When you open your bedroom door, the first thing you see is a scattered trail of short green threads leading down the hall. Squinting, you frown at it. It’s leading toward the library, and it’s noise from the library that woke you. It sounded suspiciously like _cheer_. Still does.

“Hey, g’mornin’.”

Dean’s just come around the corner, _also_ distracted with the trail of greenery. He looks fresh from the showers, since his hair’s dark and damp. He’s bundled up in one of the dead guy robes. The vee open at the top says he’s wearing a t-shirt; the knobs of his ankles above his slippers say he’s just wearing boxer-briefs. His knuckles are blanched around the handle of a coffee mug. He looks at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a slow, easy grin, then he looks back at the ground. He says, “The hell is this?”

You’re stifling a yawn. “Was just gonna ask you.”

“Yeah, I got nothing.” He gestures with his coffee. “Let’s check it out.”

The trail leads to the library, where—whoa. The Apocalypse World crew has made a total mess of it. Pieces of a gigantic fake Christmas tree are spread all over the ground—hence the trail of faux pine needles all the way down the hall. Some folks fluff individual branches back to life, and others root through boxes of delicate glass ornaments. Two of them hang mistletoe in the doorway between the library and the war room. Maggie is up a ladder, stringing lights by the ceiling while someone else directs from the ground. Dean’s record player is sitting on one of the bookshelves, cranking out Bing Crosby. It’s chaos.

You’re laughing in surprise. “Oh, man. I’m gonna need coffee for this.”

“I’m gonna need _more_ coffee for this.” Dean looks woefully down at his mug.

“Lighten up, Scrooge.” It’s Sam, slipping between you and Dean with a huge lidded box in his arms. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

Dean rolls his eyes, lifting his coffee for a sip. “Can’t insult me with that one, Sammy. Scrooge McDuck’s a national treasure.”

Sam’s exasperated dimples flare.

Trying not to laugh, you ask, “Where did all this stuff even come from?”

“These guys found it in the basement.” Sam hefts the box. “Pretty sure it was mixed in with a bunch of old tax documents.”

“Right next to the porn, then,” you mutter, and Dean nearly sprays coffee.

“ _Gross_.” Sam dances away. You just laugh, thwacking Dean between his shoulder blades, and—ah, hell. He’s warm. And solid. “M’good,” he rasps. “All good.”

“Uh huh.” You take your hand away, reluctantly. “I’m getting coffee. You said you wanted a refill?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, fist to his chest. “Yeah, let’s—definitely.”

Jack and Cas are in the kitchen, a laptop open on the counter, pans and bowls and ingredients strewn about. It smells like warm, toasty holiday spices. “Yep,” says Dean, heading down the steps. “Not one single secular space left in the whole joint.”

You snort, going to hover beside Jack and Cas. “What are we making?”

“Eggnog,” says Jack, lowering a microplane and a little round nutmeg nut. “Well—we’re trying, anyway. My last batch curdled in the pan.”

“It was _not_ pleasant,” Cas mutters.

“Try this, though.” Jack dips a spoon into the latest pan.

“Oh, man.” You take the spoon. “It’s nine a.m. Is this loaded?”

Jack smiles. “Not yet.”

Hoping it’s at least halfway decent, you sip the contents out of the spoon. And it’s. . . oh, damn, it’s delicious. Silky-smooth, nutmeggy, vanilla-y. Not sickly-sweet, either. It’s just right. Jack watches you hopefully, brows up, eyes wide. “Well?”

You’re in the middle of a religious experience. “You got a winner here, Jack.”

His grin lights up his whole face, and Cas beams at him. “Thank you,” Jack says, hair falling into his eyes as he looks back down at the nog. “Hopefully the others agree.”

“Hey.” Dean’s at your side, offering you a fresh mug of joe prepared exactly how you like it.

You take it, face warming. Damn, he smells good, this close. It’s that fresh shower, gotta be. “Thanks.”

Maggie shows up, bounding in to try Jack’s second batch. While they chatter, Dean nods you over to the kitchen table, which is strewn with a few wayward cooking utensils. You settle in across from one another, hands around your java, breathing in the steam. From the library, the music changes—it’s Sinatra now.

You lift and lower your brows. “So you let the crew borrow your record player, huh.”

“Yep. No idea where the hell they got those records, but—yeah, I don’t mind. I’m not the frickin’ Grinch, here.”

You squint teasingly. “Aren’t you, though?”

Dean grins into his mug. “Look, just because I holed up in my room awhile back. . .”

“I can’t blame you there.” You lean on your arms. “Getting used to this many people here—not easy for me, either. Kinda start to miss the quiet, after awhile.”

“Yeah, exactly. I just, if they’re gonna do Christmas. . . I dunno.”

Your heart pitter-patters. “What?”

He spreads one hand, not looking up. “I wouldn’t mind actually doing the whole holiday thing. Just. . . not so many people.” His voice lowers as he glances over at Maggie. “And without everybody looking at me like I’m gonna go all archangeled any second.”

They _have_ been doing that. It’s so damn unfair. Not like you were any different, when Dean came back, but—that was only the first few minutes. This is. . . even you feel the chill of their uncertainty sometimes. “No shit. Getting real tired of that, and it’s not even directed at me.”

“Right?” He sighs. “Woulda been nice to gank the sonofabitch before all this celebrating, too. Feels kinda pointless with him still out there.”

“Yeah. But at least we know he’s staying put in Kansas City. And we have a man on the inside.” Garth, you mean. Sam called him up, asked him to look into it. “And anyway—” _Zzt zzt._ You jump, reaching for the phone in your pocket. You skim the message onscreen.

Hope flickers to life inside you, hesitant as a candle in the snow. “Hey, it’s Ketch. He wants to know if we’ll be around for a call in twenty.”

Dean’s eyes light up. “Maybe he has something on that egg.” _That egg_ —that Men of Letters magic bomb that sends archangels directly to the Cage.

“Gotta be.” Your thumbs fly over your phone. “Telling him we’ll be ready.”

“Hell, yes.” Dean’s mood has totally one-eightied. “Between Garth and Ketch, we might have this thing made by Christmas after all.”

Wouldn’t that just be the bee’s knees. “I hope so.”

  

*

*

*

 

_\- Five Months Ago -_

 

“Hey.” Dean’s leaning against your door jamb like that’s just where he lives. He’s got a beer in one hand and a quiet little smile on his face. “Whatcha doin’?”

You pick up your own beer, leaning back in your desk chair. “Relaxing, for friggin’ once.”

“Mm. I’ll drink to that.” He does.

“Yeah, this whole Jack thing—him helping out on these hunts—I don’t think we’ve ever cleared a werewolf pack that fast.”

“Dude, right?” He spreads an incredulous hand, palm-up. “I was just tellin’ Sam—if Jack keeps this up, who knows—maybe we can all finally catch a break. Relax a little bit.”

“Yes, please.” You squint at him sideways. “What would that even look like?”

He’s grinning. “How you feel about a sandy beach somewhere?”

You laugh, surprised. “Count me the heck in.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’ve already got Sam on board with matching Hawaiian shirts, so if I get you and Cas in on it—hell. We’ll have enough for a steel drum band.”

You nearly snort into your beer. “I’m in, if it comes with margs for each hand.”

“One frozen, one on the rocks,” he says. “You know it. Best of both worlds.”

You’re beaming at him, and he’s beaming at you. He’s wearing that blue shirt you love on him so much, the chambray. He looks so. . . you clear your throat. “You wanna come in, or. . .?”

“Nah, just passing by. But, uh.” Dean shoves his free hand into his jeans pocket. Not quite looking up, he says, “You wanna—tomorrow night. I was thinking it’s been awhile since I hit up Donnie’s. Definitely in the mood for one of those Ten Dollar Tuesdays.”

Your heart lurches. Is he asking—? You say, “Burger and a beer, ten bucks, right?”

“That’s the one.” He meets your eyes at last, but it’s a flickering sort of thing. Away and back. “You, ah. You wanna come with? I’m buyin’.”

Oh, shit. He _is_ asking. He’s— _Dean’s asking you on a date._ “Yeah, sure,” you say, with a degree of chill you can’t believe you possess. “Love to.”

He ducks his head, hiding a growing smile. “Neat.”

“Neat, huh.”

“Yeah, neat.” He looks back up, eyes shining.

You’re trying not to burst into a fit of giggles, which would be _super not chill_. “Night, Dean.”

He nods, lips pursed. “Night,” he says, and he’s gone.

Except it doesn’t happen. Because tomorrow’s the day Lucifer shows up with Michael in tow. The day Lucifer grabs you and Sam and Jack, yoinking you out of the bunker and into an abandoned church. The day Dean says “yes.”

 

*

 

Rain pours down in sheets outside the abandoned church, which is shoved up against the edge of a weedy state route. The outside’s even more overgrown than in, and the air smells like damp hay. Sam’s still shaking, moving gingerly down the steps. Jack follows, sleeving the smears of red off his face. You’re right behind them. You keep touching the back of your head. Just minutes ago it was blood-wet. Lucifer hurled you across the room and into the shallow steps of the altar, a hit so hard it struck you briefly unconscious until Dean appeared, eyes glowing, shadowy wings climbing the walls, and he—

Nope. _Nope_ , if you think about that, if you keep fixating on _“We had a deal!”_ , you’re gonna start freaking out. Instead you squint down the road. Yellow lights glare from overhead, leading the way past a couple of houses and an auto-body shop and a handful of other nondescript buildings. In the distance, past one of the houses, the tops of grain silos are lit up against the rain. “C’mon,” says Sam, hollow. “Gotta find a ride.”

He hotwires an old Buick in the auto-body lot. Jack climbs into the back, silent and shaken. You buckle into the front. The car smells like stale cigarettes, and the engine sounds worryingly grindy. You dry your wet hands on the seat, then bring up your phone. The screen’s cracked, spiderwebbed from the hit you took on those steps, but it works. Carefully, you pull up Google Maps. Then you breathe a sigh of relief. “We’re in Randall.”

Sam pulls the creaking door shut. He squints at you. “Kansas?”

“Yeah. About an hour to get home.”

“Okay.” He runs a hand over his face. His hair’s wet, and he looks young and boyish and scared. “Okay. Call Cas. Make sure—” He stops. “Just make sure.”

“I would go.” Jack’s voice wavers. “I would take both of you back. But Lucifer, you saw—he drained my powers. I—I don’t. . .”

“It’s okay,” says Sam. He puts a hand on the back of your seat to twist around, reversing out of the lot. “We’ll be home in an hour. And we’ll figure this out. All of it.”

You’re touching the back of your head again. Dean healed you just before he fought Lucifer. Got down to his haunches beside you, touched the side of your face, his eyes wide with worry. “Hey, kiddo.” He said it like an apology. Grace flared up ice-blue, and the hurt melted away like. . .

_We had a deal!_

You grit your teeth and dial Cas as Sam opens up the throttle.

 

*

*

*

 

_\- Now -_

 

You spend the twenty minutes before Ketch calls getting dressed, straightening things up—then helping the crew out in the library. “Jesus,” you say, holding a length of string light as Sam untangles the other end. “How much of this shit did those dead guys _have_?”

“Had even more a few minutes ago,” says Sam, “but Dean ran off with a pile of it.”

You grin. “If he’s trying for Scrooge, he’s not doing so well.”

“Just don’t tell him that,” Sam agrees.

“Guys?” Jack’s on the other side of the table, his laptop open. “Ketch is calling in.”

“All right.” Sam sets the lights down. “Let’s move this to the war table. I’ll go grab Dean.”

“I’ve got Cas,” you volunteer. And in moments you’re all gathering around the laptop.

Ketch has news—a combo of good and bad. As the five of you try to figure out what to do with it, Garth calls Sam.

Garth also has news—on Michael. And two ways to stop him, both within reach.

Aaand just like that, you’re packing a bag.

You meet Dean back in the war room, where he’s sitting on the edge of the map table, staring into the library. He's wearing a camel-colored jacket you've never seen before, a deep green button-down shirt beneath it. When you pause beside him, you see what he’s seeing: Mary and Bobby hanging ornaments on the tree in front of the telescope. She’s laughing at something Bobby’s just said, her hand on his arm. Damn—when’s the last time you saw her this happy?

You glance at Dean, who seems torn between wistfulness and just flat-out sadness. “You aren’t asking them to come along?”

“Nah.” He sighs and gets to his feet, shouldering his bag. “None of these guys’ve had a Christmas in years. Not gonna take that away from them.”

“They’d understand.”

“Yeah, I know.” The corner of his mouth tugs up, and his eyes meet yours. “But I got everybody I need.”

Your cheeks heat. You shove your hands in your pockets, looking away. “Sam, uh. Sam said you ran off with some lights.”

Dean shakes his head, face blank. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Dude, it sounds _exactly_ like you. You’re a sentimental bastard.”

He’s fighting a grin now. “Maybe.”

You thwap his arm; he thwaps yours. Before you can get too carried away, Sam and Cas and Jack show up, bags over their shoulders, too. The five of you look at one another. “Okay,” says Dean, keys in his hand. “Sam, Jack—post office.”

“Post office,” Sam agrees.

Yeah—Ketch apparently dropped the archangel-smiting egg bomb into the express mail. It’s held up in Joplin, Missouri, because it’s Christmas damn Eve and the only mail anyone’s getting tonight is coming out of a physics-defying sleigh. That is, unless somebody breaks into the shipping facility to get it. Or somebodies. Namely Sam and Jack.

“The rest of us. . .” Dean looks at you and Cas. “Omaha.”

You nod. “Omaha.” Where Garth gave you a lead on the spear. _The_ spear. The one that can kill Michael and gave Dean a gnarly scar during his possession.

Dean nods back. “Okay,” he says. “Well, let’s do this. Ready—break.”

 

*

*

*

 

_\- Three Months Ago -_

 

Dean’s here. Impossibly, improbably, against every odd, he's limping wearily toward you and Sam and Mary and Bobby, dragging a newsboy cap off his head. 

He hits his ass, leaning up against a pillar, panting like he’s just crawled to shore after a shipwreck. He’s wearing an archaic coat and suit and tie. Sam’s down on his knees, trying to figure it out—you’re all trying to figure it out—but Dean doesn’t know why Michael left him so suddenly, either. The archangel just peaced out the second those double doors blew open.

It sounds like a god damn trap. So when Dean reaches for you, every instinct clamors in terror. God help you, you step back.

Your lower lip’s trembling, your eyes stinging with tears. “Holy fire,” you croak. “Dammit, if you can walk through a circle of holy fire, then I’ll believe it’s really you.”

Sam runs a hand over his dark beard. “I don’t know if that’s—”

“No,” says Dean, his gaze on you. He struggles to his feet, still wobbly, Bobby’s hand on his arm. “No, get the holy oil. Let’s do this.”

Sam pours a shining circle onto the dusty tiles. Inside it, Dean touches his hair again, messing up the side part. It’s so obvious he hates it. But if he’s still Michael. . . that kind of move would be so easy to fake. Easy enough to fool any damn one of you. And honestly, it’s _got_ to be Michael, because why the hell else would he just abandon Dean like that? Suddenly? No warning? Right after sending a horde of silver-immune werewolves your way?

When Sam’s done, Mary lights it up. The fire glows orange and lovely, but it turns the circles under Dean’s eyes into chasms. Makes him look even more exhausted.

You’re bracing yourself so tensely, your legs shake. _Please_ , you think. _Please, please, please be you and not—_

Dean steps through the flames, right in front of you, with wide hopeful eyes and a trembly lower lip to match your own. He rasps, “That work for you?”

You’re sniffling now. You step into his opening arms, burying your face in his starchy shirt collar. “I’ll take it.”

His big hands gather up the back of your jacket as he crushes you against him. The hoarse way he croaks your name, the relief in it—it makes your legs wobble all over again.

“Hate to interrupt,” says Bobby, “but we gotta go. Wherever Michael went, I don’t want him siccing more of those attack mutts on us.”

“Car’s outside,” Mary says. “Dean, I’d let you drive, but. . .”

“No, no, that’s—” Dean breathes out, shaky. He keeps you close with an arm around your shoulders. “—I wouldn’t let me drive, either. Let’s _vamanos_.”

On the way out, you stay at his side, letting the weight of his arm rest on your shoulders. Man, the way he leans into you—his body is warm and close and _right here_. Finally, after weeks of sleepless nights. Stomach-churning worry, imagining the worst.

Willing your damp eyes to dry, you tug at a handful of his expensive coat. “Dude. What’s with the Gatsby getup?”

“Hell if I know,” he grunts. “Does feel kinda like I’m facedown-dead in a pool, though.”

Mary squints back at him. “You’ve read that book?”

A ghost of a smile flits across Dean’s mouth. He says to you, “How many times I gotta tell these guys I read?”

“Movie’s got Redford,” you point out. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see it there, too.”

“Yeah, all right.” He’s really smiling now. “What’d you say about it that one time—that house—it’s the Sundance Kid’s retirement, right?”

Your heart warms. “Yep. Where he lives with Butch, after they escaped that final shootout.”

“Damn right they escaped that final shootout.”

“Hey,” Sam says, glancing back in irritation, “can we focus up?”

Dean glares. “Take it easy, Gimli.”

Sam’s mouth flattens in irritation, making his beard twitch, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Michael’s monsters never do show back up.

Mary and Bobby stick around in Duluth, cleaning up and following leads. Dean sleeps most of the ride back to Lebanon, stretched across the back seat while you and Sam trade worried glances, talking in hushed voices. Then you’re home.

Dean brushes it all off. Doesn’t wanna talk about it. And that shit’s just classic Dean, isn’t it—but you know him. He’s desperate to talk but doesn’t want anyone to know it. So you make yourself available. You act like nothing’s amiss, because apart from the raised scar on his arm, the disaster of a trip up to see Jody and find the spear that could actually damage Michael—nothing _is_ amiss. He’s back.

You’ll take it.

 

 

_\- Two Months Ago -_

 

In between _Empire Strikes Back_ and _Return of the Jedi_ , he tells you everything.

You meant to just poke your head inside his room and say hello. Ask how he’s doing, since he’s kind of been holing up here the last few weeks. Sam’s worried, but Dean still hunts, still shows his face for dinner most nights. He just. . . doesn’t want to use the Fortress of Dean-i-tude when it’s been co-opted by a bunch of Apocalypse World people he doesn’t know.

Now he’s sprawled across his bed with a stack of pillows under his chest and a sweating six-pack beneath him on the floor while the _Falcon_ weaves through an asteroid field.

He. Is. _Adorable_.

Without even glancing up, he holds out a beer. The scar on his arm is just visible beneath the sleeve of his black tee. “C’mon in,” he says. “You know you’re hot for Han.”

You roll your eyes, both annoyed and delighted that he’s got you down so well. You take the beer. “Like you wouldn’t get all up in Leia’s business.”

“Be an idiot not to,” he says, grinning, and scoots so you can sit and lean back against the headboard. On his _bed_. Squee. You end up camping there the rest of the movie, trading commentary. Nudging his leg when he makes you laugh. Jesus, it’s cozy.

Between movies, he rolls to his back, pulling up his phone. “You hungry? I’m feelin’ pizza.”

“I’m _always_ feeling pizza. What kind we getting?”

But his eyes have gone blank and wide. He blinks, and then his brows knit, and he blinks again, hard. The phone damn near slips out of his hands, and he flinches to catch it.

You’re staring. “Dean?”

Grimacing, he sits up, rubbing one of his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I—did I zone out, just now?”

“Looked like you were trying _not_ to zone out.” You gulp, suddenly nervous for him. “What was that about?”

As he settles in, your knees almost bump, but not quite. He says, “It’s—I think this is the third time it’s happened since I got back? A few seconds, I just go all fuzzy, and everything—its like the sound drops out. And y’know how Cas describes angel radio, that buzzing, the high-pitched. . .”

“Yeah?”

“I hear that. Just for a second. And I think. . .” He shakes his head, looking back at you with big, nervous eyes. “Dammit, I’m afraid that means Michael still has his meathooks in me.”

The fear of that turns your guts over. “But that doesn’t have to mean—that could be anything. Hell, that could be the beer.”

He glances warily toward the six-pack.

You plow on. “We already know that a trace of angel grace stays behind in any vessel they possess. Maybe you have a scrap of Michael’s mojo, and it’s just. . . tuning in sometimes on its own. Doesn’t mean you’re still connected.”

“Could be.” Dean scoots to the edge of the bed, getting his feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees. He runs his face through both hands, then looks back toward you. He looks so weary. “Sam probably told you I wouldn’t talk about it, right. That I didn’t remember what went down, when I was. . . when Michael ran off with me.”

You study your beer. “He mentioned that, yeah.”

“You probably woulda called me on my bullshit if I gave you the same talk.”

"Depends on the day.”

“Well. I do remember it.” His voice cracks. “All of it.”

Shit. Your heart aches for him. All the crap he’s gone through, and this too. “How bad was it?”

His jaw bobs. His eyes are distant, now. “It felt like I was drowning.”

Your breath catches. “Drowning?”

“The whole time, I was trying to just—claw my way up to the surface. Tell the bastard to get bent, y’know. But I never could. He never let me. I never—he had me _trapped_.” Muscles flare along his jaw. “Ended up—I threatened, and I begged, and I. . . but he just ignored me. Like he didn’t even hear me.”

“Jesus, Dean. How are you not in full-time freakout mode?”

“I mean.” He glances around his room. “I been camping in here for a week. This look like total stability to you?”

“It’s not that bad.” You pick at the beer label. “Could be worse. You could be on a total bender right now. Instead you’re just—you’re marathoning _Star Wars_.”

He gives you some considerate brows. “True. But I—dammit, I can’t go through that again. I can’t. . .”

“You won’t.”

His eyes go distant. Like he wishes he could believe it.

You unfold yourself and scoot to sit next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, because fuck it. God, he’s warm. Smells like soap and laundry and home. “Dean,” you say. “You don’t consent this time. We all know it. And even _if_ Michael tries something, that asshole’s gonna have to get through me first. Through me, and Sam, and Cas, and Jack.” You lean into him a little more. He leans, too. “We are _not_ going to let him take you again.”

His throat bobs, thick. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do.”

Dean looks at you, full and open, and the urge overwhelms you: _kiss him_. The way his lips part—it’s a blatant invitation; you can already feel how easily they’d give against your own, and how he’d come back with eagerness. Desperation. Hands in your hair—

You slap both hands down onto your thighs. Wishful thinking never got you anywhere. “Still starving,” you announce, standing. “Pizza?”

“Yeah.” He blinks, clears his throat. “Yeah, sounds good.”

Unease churns in your belly. You perch on the desk chair instead of the bed for _Return of the Jedi_ , claiming you don’t wanna get pizza grease on his bed. But you're trying to put some distance between you and him, and you're so caught up in thinking about it, you're barely paying attention to the film.

You nearly made a move on Dean Winchester just then, right after he opened up to you. What the hell were you thinking?

Anybody else, that would’ve been the moment to go in for a smooch. Some kind of cinematic camera-circling music-cueing shit. But you don’t want _just_ a kiss, you think, watching him prop those pillows up underneath his chest again. You want so many more nights like this. And couldn't he want it, too? As many times as you’ve listened to him open up, he’s done the same for you. It follows that maybe he'd want the sexy stuff, too, same as you. The whole package—frantic, clothes-tearingly desperate sex and the cozy, cuddly chit-chats in the dark afterward.

But that's just more damn wishful thinking. Dean doesn’t want that shit. He doesn’t do relationships. It hasn’t worked out with anybody, even the woman he had a ready-made life with. He hooks up and moves on. Maybe not even that, anymore; you can’t remember the last time you heard him brag about a hookup.

Christ. Maybe he knows how you feel. You haven’t exactly been the queen of subtlety, here, have you. He would’ve told you if he wanted you. And since he clearly doesn’t. . . guh. What if you’d actually kissed him a bit ago? He would’ve had to tell you, out loud, with words, _kid, it ain’t like that_. You would’ve expired on the _spot_.

Either way, it isn’t fair that he thinks he can trust you with friendship when you’re sitting here thinking about rolling him over, straddling his hips, and yanking his tee off over his head.

You gotta get outta here. You gotta put some distance— _more_ distance—between yourself and this absolutely unachievable crush so you can just. . . just stop. Just be friends again, without wanting to have your sexy way with him.

Fate throws you a bone. The movie ends, Dean switches to regular TV, and instantly he’s stuck on one of his ridiculous horror-slasher films. And then Sam comes in with news of a case. You’re infinitely glad you’re on the desk chair now, not the bed, but Dean perks up to the news. “You wanna come with?” he asks, on his feet now, about to follow Sam to the library for more details.

You force a smile, shaking your head. “Nah. I got stuff around here I wanna take care of.” You get to your feet, too, pretending you can’t read the disappointment in his face. “You go ahead—I think Sam could use the bro time.”

“Might be right.” He’s hanging onto the door knob. “Hey. Thanks for, uh. Everything.”

Your heart pitter-patters with longing. He’s so beautiful. And he’s _so_ not into you the way you hope. “Thanks for the pizza.”

He nods, smiles. Then he’s gone.

Once they’re on the road, you pack a bag. The next day, you text him:  **Argh. Friends in Lexington need a hand with a djinn infestation. Heading east.**

His response: **Pizza, beer, and episode seven when you get back.**

 **It’s a deal** , you tell him. You don’t have the heart to add that you won’t be back for as long as you can help it.

 

 

_\- Two Weeks Ago -_

 

Dean calls on a Thursday and says, with a crack in his voice, “It’s Jack. He’s, ah. He’s dying.”

You show up Friday morning. It’s bad. God, it’s bad. The bunker is quiet; most folks are out on hunts, and anyway, Sam’s been encouraging them all to lay low because of Jack.

Who’s back in his own room—a change from the infirmary, apparently. The lights are soft and cozy in here; chairs stand guard around the bed where the guys have kept vigil. Dean’s record player sits on the desk, and he’s beside it, lowering the tone arm on a Judy Collins album that starts up quiet and bittersweet. Everyone looks up as you come in, moving to greet you, but the way Dean’s whole body projects his relief, his gratitude—it’s hard to look away.

You should’ve been here. Dammit—you should’ve taken your chances.

Jack’s the same sickly color as his beige t-shirt, which is patchy with sweat. He’s still coughing up blood, but his tired eyes light up when he sees you, and he gets up onto his hands for a hug. It twists your heart in achy knots, seeing him like this. And seeing how broken the rest of them are. How tired. They’re each watching you hopefully as you pull back from Jack’s arms.

It makes you nervous. “Okay,” you say, flapping your hands, trying act boisterous. Like it’s not already a funeral. “Scram, you guys. Give us some space. Get us some tea, or something. Jack, you like tea?”

“Peppermint,” says Jack. “With sugar.”

“Make that two.” You settle into the spare chair beside the bed.

“Two peppermint teas,” says Dean. “With sugar. On it.”

“Thanks, dude.” You smile back at him, and the one he returns is thin, worried, but—there’s hope, too. Sam and Cas make their excuses, and then it’s just you and Jack. “Jesus,” you say, kicking your feet up on the sideboard. “They’re bumming me out.” You’re overdoing it, you know you are, but if you don’t pretend to be cool about this, you’re gonna lose it for real. And Jack doesn’t need that.

But he shrugs, smiling sadly. “They don’t know what else to do.”

“Yeah. Hear that.” You fold your arms over your knees. “Dean, ah. Dean says he took you out into the world.”

“He did.” Jack’s eyes go all dreamy. “He taught me to drive. We went fishing down at this creek, a few miles from here.”

That makes your heart ache, too. You know what that shit means to Dean. You clear your tightening throat. “Catch anything good?”

“Yes. But we threw them back.” He shifts onto his side to see you better, and he searches your face. “You know, I’ve been trying to tell Dean—it’s all right. What’s happening to me. I've made peace with it. I've lived a good life. I don’t feel like I’ve missed anything.”

You study your hands. “Spoken like someone who hasn’t seen enough to miss.”

“I mean—sex, maybe.”

One foot slips off its perch. “Uh.”

“But that doesn’t seem as important as, say, falling in love.” He breathes out slowly. “That’s the only thing I regret, I think. Not falling in love. But. . . it’s not like I haven’t _experienced_ love. You and Castiel and the others—what you’ve done for me, been to me. . .”

Your throat feels tight. The corners of your eyes are prickling. “Yeah, well. You’ve got the best of it, then. Being _in_ love—that’ll just break your heart.”

“Will it?” He’s squinting. “Tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“What it’s like to be in love.”

Oh, man. The earnestness in his eyes—this isn’t something you can brush off. The best you can do for him is just. . . just be honest. Even _if_ Dean could be back at any second with two minty mugs of tea.

You gnaw your lower lip. Then you speak your dang truth. “It hurts. But—kind of in a good way. Right here.” Hand to heart. “And it’s so damn distracting. That person—they’re everything to you. They’re the first person you wanna talk to when good and bad and—and even boring stuff happens. They’re the first person you think of when you hear sappy songs on the radio.” You twirl a finger toward the slow-wobbling record. “Or a turntable. And the thing is—if you’re lucky, they let you see all the shitty, broken parts of them, the parts of themselves they hate, and you just—you love ‘em anyway. You love ‘em _because_ of that stuff. Because they wouldn’t be who they are without it all. And they know the same stuff about you. They know all of it, and they. . .” Your throat’s getting tight. You study your hands. So much for trying to put the brakes on your damn Dean crush.

“Then why does it hurt?”

 _Please don’t let Dean be in earshot._ “Because sometimes you feel all that crap, and you can’t tell anyone about it. Especially not the person it’s about.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. You don’t think they feel the same, maybe. Any number of reasons.” You clear your throat. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re not missing much.”

He smiles, too. “When you put it like that—I get it.”

You pat the mattress. “I’m gonna go check on that tea.”

Except Dean nearly crashes into you in the threshold.

“Whoa!” He rallies, barely sloshing anything from the mugs he’s carrying. Your face is on _fire_. You didn’t hear his footsteps. You just—was he paused outside the door, listening? His face is—oh, god, his face is patchy-pink. He lifts one of the mugs. “Nearly ended up on the floor.”

“Yeah, good save.” You take the mug, unable to avoid your fingers brushing. “I was just, uh—coming to check on this.”

“I was just coming back.” His eyes catch and hold yours. “Did I say I’m really glad you’re here yet? Because I’m really glad you’re here.”

Your face is still on fire. “Glad I’m here, too.”

 

*

 

Jack dies the next afternoon.

Predictably, nobody handles it well. But that night, you and Dean and Sam and Cas drink to his memory.

A lot.

Like, a _lot_ of drinks to his memory. You sit at the kitchen table around a handful of those caramel-nougat bars the guy loved, and Dean uncorks the faceted decanter with the Fancy Stuff probably as old as the bunker itself, and damn, the four of you _drink_.

You’re two down when the guilt becomes too much. “I shoulda been here,” you tell them, barely able to look up. “I shoulda come running the second I heard Jack was under the weather.”

“You were busy,” Sam says. Er, slurs. “First it was—what, Leshington—”

“ _Lex_ ington,” says Dean, glass up, eyes down.

“Yeah, Leshington,” says Sam. “Then—the coast, right. More hunter friends.”

“Boston,” says Cas, and lifts an eyebrow Sam’s way. “Or should I say Boshton.”

“It’s Bahstin,” says Sam. He turns back to you. “Did you pahk the cah at Hahvad Yahd?”

“Jesus,” says Dean, grinning, pouring him more. “You’re a sloppy drunk, you know that.”

“You may’ve done more good out there than here,” Cas tells you gently. “There wasn’t much to do here except. . . just wait.”

“Can’t say I coulda helped with that,” you mutter, but you wonder, deep down, if maybe just being here would’ve been enough.

“But hey.” Dean’s looking at you, his eyes holding yours. There’s that little smile again. “It’s okay. You—you’re here now.”

It takes another hour of laughing and reminiscing before Sam gives up and heads to bed, slapping a hand down on Dean’s shoulder before he sways outta the kitchen. Cas follows, also with a Dean shoulder-slap, giving you a look like _I better make sure Sam doesn’t pass out in the hallway_.

Then you’re alone with Dean.

Your hands around your glass are almost close enough to touch his knuckles. He’s bleary-eyed,but smiling up at you through his lashes. “Hey.” He leans forward on both his elbows. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

Your pulse jumps through the fog of booze. “Shoot.”

He studies the tabletop. Then he says, “Now that it’s just you’n me. . .”

You take another sip, because damn, you need it for whatever the hell this is.

He keeps going. “After I got back from—y’know. Being Michael’ed. You disappeared. I mean—I wasn’t back that long, and then you were just. . . you were gone.”

“Nuh-uh.” You press your cool glass to one temple. “I was around for a _while_ —we marathoned episodes five and six in your room, remember.”

“Oh, I remember.” He lifts his own glass, pointing at you around it. He’s smirking. “We still gotta watch seven.”

“Dude, yes.” On his bed, preferably. Or not. Because you are  _friends_. “And I didn’t _leave_. You and Sam went to work that Hatchet Man case, and my buddies called me up. . .then it was just one case after another.”

“Yeahhh.” He drains the last of his glass, and grimaces. “I know how that is.”

“I did want to stay.” It comes out tiny and wavering for all it’s the most honest shit you’ve said in the last hour. So you grin, and add, “Way better wifi here.”

He grins, too, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instantly you feel guilty, but you can’t quite tell for what. What does he want you to say? What does he—?

“God.” You sink your head into your hands. “Really feelin’ this booze. I’m gonna go get some sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s. Yeah.” He sits up, smiling blearily up at you.

You stand on wobbly legs.

Instantly his arms spread your way. “You need a hand”

“ _Nope_.” Your arms are out too; you’re nearly laughing in mortification. “Just needed a sec.” You touch his shoulder, because that’s an established safe space. “Gonna fall asleep here at the table?”

“Probably.”

You pat his shoulder once more, but before you can take your hand back—his own lands there, warm and solid. He squeezes your fingers. Your heart hammers against your ribs as he says, rough, “M’still really glad you’re here.”

God. You ache with wanting. “So am I.”

You hover there a moment more. Then you make yourself head up the stairs, out into the hall, and back to your room.

(Jack’s alive again by lunch.

It gives you an excuse to stick around.)

 

 

*

*

*

 

_\- Now -_

 

Well, that was a hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve day.

Point is, you’re all here now, in Kansas City—in the basement-level parking garage of this thirty-story corporate monstrosity called Hitomi Plaza. At the very top, Michael is holed up Hans Gruber-style. According to Garth, Michael’s planning to send an attack signal to all of his grace-spiked monsters at midnight. You check your watch. It’s fifteen ’til.

This would be absolutely hopeless if you, Dean, and Cas hadn’t managed to get the spear.

Which Dean is twirling in his hands like it’s a god damn pool noodle, waggling his eyebrows at you. He nods toward the gigantic, glowing Hitomi Plaza sign by the elevators, flanked with bauble-covered trees. “Any chance we can give ‘em helicopters, right up the ass?”

You snort, but Sam just gives him a flat look. “Any chance you can stop turning this into _Die Hard_?”

You nudge Sam’s arm. “Have you met him?”

Dean grins. “Yeah, c’mon, Sammy. It’s Christmas. Lemme have this.”

“The movie wasn’t _that_ good,” says Cas; he and Jack are joining the rest of you.

It’s Dean’s turn to glare. “Don’t you dare besmirch the good name of John McClane,” he says. “And on Christmas Eve, too.”

“I haven’t seen it,” says Jack, to which Dean just swings partway around, hands up, spear out, groaning, “You guys are killin’ me.”

“C’mon,” says Sam. “We got a job to do and fifteen minutes to do it. Let’s go over the plan.”

So here’s how it’s going down.

Step one: Feel some residual guilt over leaving Garth in the trunk of the Impala. Earlier, the guy ingested some of Michael's grace, which went rogue inside him and made him turn on Sam. Sam knocked him out, tied him up, and tossed him in the trunk. Best you can do for the guy until the werewolf rage simmers down.

Step two: Head up to the thirtieth floor. Send Cas in so he can distract Michael while you, Sam and Jack can head to Michael’s office and Dean can hide in said office.

Step three: Attack the archangel.

Step four: Strike with the spear and gank Michael to kingdom come. (Step four is all Dean.)

Step five: Call off the horde of monsters Michael’s spread throughout the city, waiting for his signal to attack anyone in their sight.

Step six: Profit. Hopefully. At least drive home with everyone in one piece.

“Okay,” says Sam, rolling up the actual freaking map of the building he grabbed from the security office before the rest of you showed up. “Let’s get to it.”

Dean comes over to you as you finish getting your knives out of your bag. “Hey." He's nervous. A little jumpy. He's not twirling the spear now. "Kid, I—listen. I wanted to say, ah. If we don’t make it out of this—”

“Dean.” It’s out before you can stop it. No matter how much you want to hear the rest. “Don’t jinx it.”

He nods, ducking his head. “Yeah. No, you’re right.” He goes for a smile and looks back up at you. He was so easygoing a minute ago, but now there’s something so hauntingly desperate in his eyes. “You gettin' sick of it yet?"

"Sick of what?"

"Me tellin' you how glad I am you're around.”

 _Squee_. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.” You nudge his arm. “Let’s yippe-ki-yay this shit, all right?”

He nods, jaw clenching. “Let’s do it.”

 

*

 

Cas goes skidding across the shiny black floor and comes to rest in a heap, his face bloodied beneath his shielding arms. Michael looms over him, resplendent in a gorgeous vessel: an olive-skinned woman in a teal silk shirt and flowing black trousers, dark hair shining in the harsh overhead light. Blood gleams between the ridges of his cocktail ring. Across from him, the Kansas City skyline glows with holiday cheer in the floor-to-ceiling windows, but he’s fixed on Cas.

 _Now,_ you think, glancing at Sam and Jack, waiting with you off to the side. You shift your angel blade in your grip. _Now, now, now—_

But soon as you take a step, Michael looks directly at the three of you. With a smirk, he lifts a hand, fingers spread.

Sam and Jack hit their knees, crying out in pain, but you—nothing happens. Michael’s staring at you, a strange, thin smile on that beautiful face. “So it’s you,” he says.

You lift your chin, furious; Sam and Jack are spitting blood onto the floor. “The hell do you care?”

Michael takes another step closer, eyes flashing. “You’re the one my perfect vessel obsesses over.”

Oh. That’s—“Excuse me?”

Michael’s smirk just deepens. “He never told you, then.”

Holy shit, you don’t want to engage him, but every part of you longs to hear more. Also if if he’s distracted, it means Dean’s got an advantage. _This_ would be a pretty fucking good time to strike, you think, but Dean remains hidden behind a partition at Michael's back.

You do your best to pretend you don’t give a flip about the archangel's words. “There’s a lot he doesn’t tell me. I’m not his friggin’ shrink.”

“He cares about his brother,” says Michael. “He cares about his friend the angel. He cares about his adopted son.” All three of whom are curled up, near whimpering in pain. “But _you_ —you’re half the reason he fought so hard to get me out. The way he feels— _wow_. He really didn’t tell you. He’s just as much of a coward as I thought. It’s a wonder his vessel even—”

“Okay,” you mutter, starting forward, “that’s about enough of—”

Michael’s hand twists.

Fire blooms beneath your ribs, so sharp and hot it steals the air from your lungs, and you gasp, hitting the floor knees-first as searing, burning pain obliterates every other thought. Dimly you’re aware of your angel blade rolling away from you. But as you look up—Dean’s edging up behind Michael with the spear.

Michael notices. His attention drawn, the pain fades, and you fall backward onto your ass, still gasping in air. Every limb shakes; there’s no way you can get in this fight. And anyway, Dean’s got it covered.

What the hell did Michael mean, by what he—what the _hell_?

Michael bats the spear out of Dean’s hands, then seizes Dean by the throat and hauls him into the air. The spear spins across the tiles and comes to rest near Sam.

 _Shit_. You struggle to get back up to your knees, echoes of pain still firing along your nerves—and then Michael hurls Dean to the floor, where he skids to a halt right in front of the three of you, up on his elbows.

“Now you get to see it,” Michael says, smiling grimly. He glances at the rest of you. “Now _they_ get to see it. Everything your ‘yes’ will make possible. All the bloodshed, all the death. All on you.” That smile deepens into a smirk, and his eyes flicker to you. “You think she’ll want anything to do with you after that?”

Your limbs go cold. _What the hell?_

Dean’s shoulders are curling in, hunched like he expects a blow—but Sam yells, “ _Dean_!” and flings the spear his way.

Dean grabs it, rolls, and he’s on his feet and the spear is a blur in the air, and—Michael shouts, stumbling back. A line of red has opened under the sleeve of that silk blouse.

As Dean taunts him, you get to your feet with Sam’s help, leaning on one another, and now Jack’s up, too, and Cas, and the four of you stagger in behind Dean. Michael’s inching away, grim-eyed, hackles up, his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Dean’s inching closer, spear raised. As clear an opening as he’ll ever get.

Holy shit, you just might end this here after a—

Dean slows to a halt. The spear wavers in his hands.

_What the—?_

Oh, shit. All at once you remember that conversation with him months back, after he zoned the hell out trying to order a pizza. What did he say then? _I just go all fuzzy, and everything. . . its like the sound drops out. . . dammit, I’m afraid that means Michael still has his meathooks in me._

He’s still frozen in place, spear up. Muscles locked.

“ _Kill him_ ,” Jack cries, but Dean’s just— _standing there._

This is Dean’s kill. He’s said it over and over. But if he can’t do it—if Michael is using some kind of fucked-up connection to make Dean hesitate, or worse, if he’s trying to control Dean— _possess Dean, again—_

Whatever the fuck’s happening, you made a promise.

You intend to keep it.

You throw yourself behind Dean, locking one hand between both of his, your other hand gripping further down the spear. The momentum launches you both forward and the spear pierces Michael’s silk blouse just before it snaps through bone, the impact juddering all the way up your arms. With your help the blade keeps going, plunging deep into Michael’s heart.

Blue-white light screams from his face, from the wound, and his spread-wide hands. You stumble back, shielding your eyes. There’s a heavy thump as Michael hits the ground, and when you look again, the shining black floor is marred with feathery streaks of soot and embers. Cracks in the same shape have cracked the windows like ice, but the glass holds.

Sam makes a relieved, gaspy noise behind you, but Dean—he turns to you, his eyes wide. His knuckles are white around the spear, still in his grip.

“I’m sorry,” you manage. You’re shaking all over. Adrenaline comedown. “I know that was your kill, I know you wanted to—”

“No.” Dean’s voice wavers even on the one word. “No, it—he was—you saved me.”

Your breath catches. “I saved you?”

“He was trying to get back in. I couldn’t even—” Dean’s disbelief is turning to relief instead, his big green eyes searching your own. “You just saved my damn bacon with that move, kiddo.”

So you read it right. You read him exactly right, his hesitation, and—good grief, you really did save his entire ass. “Holy shit,” you whisper.

The spear drops from his hands and clatters on the floor. He says your name in this wounded, rough voice, and then he’s hauling you against the entire warm, welcoming pillar of his body. He sways with you, one of his big hand cradling the back of your head. “Happy trails, Mike,” he croaks.

Jack lets out startled, relieved laughter; from the corner of your eye, you can see Sam and Cas gripping one another’s shoulders, slumped with relief.

Yeah. Yeah, this’ll work, as far as victories go. You close your eyes and slide your arms around Dean’s middle—under his jacket, over his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of him. Jesus, he smells good, laundry and man-soap and coziness. “Saw you zone out,” you whisper. “Exactly like you described.”

“I couldn’t move,” he manages. He’s still swaying with you a little bit, gripping tight. “I felt him, and he—he was about to jump right back in.”

You curl your hands into his shirt. “Promised you I wouldn’t let it happen again.”

He makes a rough noise and just clings tighter.

You catch Sam’s eye and nod him closer, and in two steps he’s wrapping both of you in his huge-ass armspan. Cas does the same, and Jack tucks into the pile, too. Dean’s laughing and sniffling, raising his head to look at you all with bright, wet eyes.

When everybody lets go, Dean’s arm stays around your shoulders, which—okay, _yes,_ fuck it—you keep your arm around his waist.

“We need—ugh. Okay.” Dean shakes himself a little bit. “Michael’s monster forces. They’re still out there, waiting for his signal.”

“Garth said he’d have the locations,” says Sam. “We could check on him—” His phone starts ringing, a cheery muffled noise from his jacket pocket. He pulls it out, squints at it, and puts it on speaker. “Garth?”

“Yeah, hey fellas. You wanna tell me why I’m tied up in a trunk right now?”

You stare at them. “Guess he doesn’t remember attacking Sam.”

"I did  _what_ , now?"

“You attacked me,” says Sam into the phone. “Michael’s grace got to you.”

“ _Balls_. You all right?”

“We’re all good,” Dean says. “Better than good. We ganked the sonofabitch. He’s dead.”

“Hot _dog_ ,” says Garth, weary relief in his voice. “Nice work. You guys gonna let me outta here?”

Sam grins. “Yeah. On our way.”

With Garth’s help (and the help of one of Michael’s minions you find creeping around Hitomi Plaza like McClane through a heating vent), you get the entire planned attack called off in less than an hour. The werewolves go slinking back into the night with their proverbial tail between their legs, and by one a.m., everyone’s getting back on the road.

Sam lets Garth take the powder-blue Mustang back to his family, so the five of you pile into the Impala. Dean and Sam take the front; Jack, you, and Cas pile into in the back, in that order.

It’s starting to snow as Dean pulls onto the freeway, a drifting of big flakes that land and melt without sticking, lovely in the headlights.

The tape deck is busted but the radio isn’t, and Sam fiddles with the dial until he finds NPR rerunning a holiday episode of _Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me_. Everyone ends up playing along, even Dean, whose shining eyes meet yours in the rear-view mirror when he gets an answer right. After that, Dean teaches Jack all the dirty versions of Christmas songs while the rest of you pretend to be scandalized and Jack laughs himself hoarse. And as if the car isn’t full of holiday cheer enough as it is, here on these back roads, every so often, a lit-up house rises out of the darkness and glows its cheery way past the car windows.

When the others cool it on the house commentating, you glance around. Sam’s asleep. Jack’s nodding off against the window. Cas is buried in his phone, his fingers flying. Sudoku.

You lean forward, hooking your arms over the front seat, letting your chin rest there. Now NPR’s doing a radio play version of _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , and Dean’s got it turned down low so Sam and Jack can sleep. Dean’s eyes flicker to yours in the rear-mirror, crinkling at the corners. “Hey, kiddo. How we holding up.”

“Tired, but I’m all right. You, though—you’re pretty wired still, aren’t you.”

“Better believe it.” Dean shifts, draping his arm over the seat back beside you. He’s sort of turned his body your way a bit, even if he’s still driving. “To be honest, I’m tryin’ to remember the last time I was this happy. I’m comin’ up goose eggs. In fact—I’m thinking about getting up early. Doing breakfast for the whole crew.”

“Dude, it’s three a.m.  _now_.”

“Yeah, and everybody sleeps in on Christmas. We’ve got time.”

You give him a look in the mirror. “Brunch, then.”

He dips his chin once, firmly. “Brunch.”

For a few minutes you two just watch the houses go by. “Look at those Griswold bastards,” Dean says, full-on admiration as you pass a farmhouse decked root to rafter in lights. “Jesus. How long you think that takes to set up?”

“Days,” you guess. “They probably start in October.”

“Ugh, probably.” Dean glances in the mirror again, but at Cas, who hasn’t budged or looked up. "Hey," he says. "Uh. Back when we were fighting Michael."

Oh, god. Is he about to bring up the way Michael singled you out? Said Dean was—what was it? _Obsessed_. You gulp, steeling yourself. "Yeah?"

Just as Dean opens his mouth again, Sam breathes in sharply and sits up, rubbing at an eye. “We there yet?” he croaks.

“No.” Dean shifts back toward the front. “What are you, five?”

“Says the guy who can’t stop referencing a dumb action movie.”

“Do not blaspheme in this car,” Dean says, pointing one finger downward. “We just kicked a dude’s ass in a tower that  _might as well've_ been real-life Nakatomi Plaza—”

“I was there,” Sam reminds him.

“We’re almost home,” you tell Sam, glancing at your phone maps. “We got half an hour.”

Sam makes a disgruntled noise and hunkers down in the seat. You sit back in yours, looking out the dark window past the dozing Jack, wondering if you’ll ever find out what Michael meant.

Back at the bunker, no one’s awake; the library is quiet and deserted. It’s also _glowing_. The war room, too. The Apocalypse World crew left all the string lights on, which makes the whole place feel terribly enchanting. Also romantic. The tree by the telescope, which was only starting to come together earlier, is now tall and beautiful, draped with multicolored lights and glass ornaments. At the top sits a metal Men of Letters star someone must’ve taken off a door. Or found a spare.

“Damn,” says Dean appreciatively, dropping his bag on the war room table. “Looks pretty good.”

“It’s amazing.” Jack’s turning in a circle as he heads toward the library. “They did great.”

“Yeah, they did.” Sam’s looking around, too. “But I’m gonna appreciate it in the morning. Night, guys.”

“Night,” says Cas, then looks back at Jack. “Jack? You want to watch something?”

“On my way,” says Jack.

Figures they get Dean’s rec room when nobody else is awake to enjoy it. Well, theoretically Dean could _now,_ but you’re pretty sure it’s bed time for everyone. Even Dean, with his Michael-murdering high.

“Welp,” you say. The others are gone except Dean, and you start up the library steps. “Guess I better—”

Quietly, Dean says, “Hey, hold up a sec.”

Oh. You turn back, heart suddenly hammering. “What’s up?”

He's got a hand on the back of his neck. "I was gonna try to. . . I dunno. Explain what the hell Michael was talking about, back there. But there's something I wanted to ask you first."

Deep breath. "Sure." 

“After I got settled in, after Michael peaced out. A few months back.” He drops his arm. His eyes are soft, so earnest it makes your heart ache. “Tell me why you left, huh. Why you _really_ left. Without the bullshit this time.” It’s not angry—just pleading.

And it makes your face heat. No way in hell you can just come out with _because I love you. And because you don’t do love. Not that kind_. “Dean, I. . .”

“Look.” He takes a quick step forward, to the bottom step. “Everything Michael said. He—he showed my hand on some things I. . . but we’re square, because last month, when you and Jack were having your heart-to-heart—I heard what you said to him.”

Your pulse skips, like, eight beats; you move up a step, standing at the top now. “You _listened in_?”

“ _No_ , I didn’t—yeah, okay, I overheard you, and I didn’t want to assume, but . . .” His pleading green eyes search your own. “I just—I need you to tell me why you really left.”

He already knows, then.

And dammit, he’s about to let you down easy. Exactly the situation you feared.

Better get it over with.

You manage, “We got close. And I wanted. . . I just _wanted_. Realized that wasn’t fair to you. Thought I was gonna do something stupid if I stuck around. I had to go because you. . . you don’t do relationships.”

He ducks his head, nodding a little on the way down. He clears his throat. “No. No, you’re right. I don’t.”

Christ. _Shit._ Your lower lip’s trembling. “Yeah. So. . .”

But his gaze flickers back to yours, and all you see is—oh, god—is _longing_. He gets a foot on the lower step, coming up toward you. He says, “I don’t do relationships with people who don’t get what it’s like to live this life. Who got no idea the kinda baggage I carry around every day. You think normal people stick around if they get one glimpse of my damage? Much less give a shit, the way you do?”

Hope makes your breath catch. “Oh.”

“I thought, when you left—I thought you’d finally picked up what I was puttin’ down. And you didn’t want it.”

A shaky laugh huffs out of you. “I wanted it so bad I had to leave to try to get away from it.”

“Did it work?”

“Not even a bit.”

He’s searching your face with bright, earnest eyes, haloed in warm lights from the war room as he joins you on the top step. Jesus, he still smells good and cozy. “I don’t—kid, you know me. I don’t know crap about making this kind of thing work. But god damn, do I wanna try.” He gulps. “I mean, you’re it for me. You know that, right?”

Incandescence suffuses you, warm as a welcoming hearth. “I do now.”

“And it—you’re—good? With that?”

“Very, _very_ good with that.”

The relief in his smile shines just as bright. “Awesome.”

You laugh. “Holy crap, you are _such_ a dork.”

His gorgeous green eyes catch on your mouth. “Then what’s that make you.”

“Uh.” You’re vibrating with giddy nerves. He’s standing so close you can count freckles across the bridge of his nose. _He’s going to kiss you_. “Totally smitten with a dork?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle up. “I’ll take it.”

From the other library doorway, Jack says, “Are you two going to kiss now?”

You jump the _hell_ back with a startled yelp, dropping the bag that was still in the crook of your arm; Jack’s leaning in the other threshold, brows up like he has no idea that he’s creeping on a private moment. Or maybe _every_ idea that he’s creeping on a private moment. “ _Jack,_ ” you start, hand pressed to your heart—which was already hammering double-time, here—“you can’t just—”

“There’s mistletoe,” he says, pointing above your and Dean’s heads.

Hey, he’s right.

Jack’s brows are still hovering. “Sam said you’re supposed to kiss if you’re standing under it.”

“Jack,” says Dean, now pinching the bridge of his nose, “it ain’t a spectator sport.”

“Fine, fine.” Jack holds up his hands, smirking. Yeah—he definitely knew what he was doing. He’s Cas’ kid, all right. “I’m going.”

“Thank you,” says Dean. He’s parked his hands on his hips now, looking up at Jack from a hanging head. “Thank you very much.”

Jack nods, beaming. “You’re welcome.” And he’s gone.

Dean sighs and looks ruefully back at you. “You, ah. You wanna try this again?”

You take a step closer. And another. “Were you really gonna kiss me under the mistletoe?”

“Hell yeah. What, a guy can’t get sappy on Christmas Eve?”

“We are _well_ past eve, my dude.”

“Uh huh.” His eyes are hovering on your mouth again, his own turned up in a bashful smile. “C’mere.”

Your heart flip-flops, your face burns hot. But he’s reaching for you, one big, cool hand alighting on the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. Encouraging. Tender. You close your eyes and tilt your face up.

His nose touches yours, a soft little nuzzle, and you nearly squeak with surprised laughter, peeking through your lashes. He’s smiling so broadly that it’s crinkling the corners of his eyes again. Another soft _boop_ on the nose, and then his lips alight on your cheek opposite his hand, and then on your forehead. Shakily, you breathe out slow, trying to make your body relax. You wind a hand into the softness of his t-shirt beneath his button-down, your knuckles brushing his belly through the tee. Your knees knock gently into his, your jackets meet. The heat of his body warms your own. “C’mere,” he murmurs again, and dips his parted lips down to yours.

You barely stop a whimper. He holds there, a gentle catch and then close, barely separating before he’s back to do it again, warm and soft and dry, and when you peek, there’s a line of desperation between his tilted brows.

Yeah, all right. You trace your fingertips across the roughness of his stubble as you part your lips and search for him with your tongue.

He meets you there with a groan, obscene around your open mouths, and the warmth as he traces tentatively against you, before plunging a little deeper—it swirls through you in glowing sparks. His hand slips back into your hair, fingers tangling with it, and he angles you up to delve even deeper.

The moan just slips out of you, desperate for all it’s quiet, and he rumbles a pleased noise right back. He pulls back a little, getting your lower lip in his teeth. As he lets go, he tilts his forehead against yours. The two of you—holy hell, you’re _both_ panting. His hand comes back from your hair, slipping down to cradle your jaw. His thumb traces your lower lip. He says, “Walk with me?”

You close your lips against the pad of his thumb. “Where to?”

His eyes flicker to the side. His other hand lands on your hip, heavy, and he steers you, walking carefully, until you bump the edge of a library table. “Right here.” His eyes absolutely sparkle with mischief.

Welp. That works. You get your ass up onto the tabletop, near giggling with joy, and he follows you—that is, sets his palms flat against the surface on either side of your hips, leaning in close. The tops of his thighs press against your knees. You touch his stubble again and let your hands fall to the lapels between shirt and jacket. Then down to his tee. “Dean?”

“Yeah.” It’s close enough to taste.

Your lips brush his. “I—I wanna touch you.”

He groans out a desperate little sound, eyes closing. “Not gonna stop you.”

You let your knuckles graze the soft, warm skin of his belly, gently and then a little harder, so you can feel the muscle under all that fluff. Then you trail your hand down to the cut of his hips that leads beneath his belt. Your hands are shaky now as he just _lets_ you touch, his forehead still against yours, breathing each other’s air. You knot your hands in the waistband of his jeans, fingers tripping past the band of what feel like snug boxer-briefs. “Go ahead,” he manages. “Want you to do it.”

“Jesus,” you breathe. You part your knees and tug him between them—and he _groans_ , wraps his hands around your hips and pulls you right to the edge so your thighs spread wide around his oncoming hips. He trails one hand up the outside of your thigh so he can hook your knee up over his waist, and oh, hell—as you gasp, his mouth finds yours almost by accident, slack and soft. He’s _hard_ ; the front of his jeans straining against your own, _into_ you, right where arousal pounds a delicious beat through your groin.

“Fuck,” he rasps. He kisses you intentionally this time, delving deep, _deeper_ , and his hips jolt against yours like it’s totally involuntary. He groans brokenly into your mouth.

It isn’t long before you’re basically just rocking against each other—denim on denim, his hand still locked behind your knee, his muffled _mmmph_ s sending lightning zig-zagging through you. Then you get his belt free of its leather loop. And he pops the button at the top of your jeans. “Okay,” he pants, “okay, okay—let’s. We should probably. I mean. We should move this, right.”

“Yeah.” Except you don’t want to let go. Behind him, the whole splendor of the room is lit up in gold and green and red and blue, interspersed with cheery strands of garland. You can’t fuck him on a library table, but the decor is really doing it for you. Also who knows if your wobbly knees are gonna hold up when you get both feet on the floor again. “Yeah, that’s a good—your room?”

“If you’re game.”

“Jesus, yes.” You gulp, meeting his lust-dark eyes. “You, ah. You got condoms?”

He crushes his forehead against yours. “Yup.”

Separating is _weird_ , because you’ve gotta grab your bag and shift your jeans—and oh, god, you can feel the uncomfortable damp, deep between your legs; your undies are toast from all that grinding. But he reaches a spare hand for you, and you take it. He tugs you into the hall.

And then makes you wait outside his room.

“Dude,” you protest, squinting at him, “what the hell?”

But his eyes are bright, lovely. Hopeful. “Just gimmie like—ten seconds.”

You do, waiting on the other side of the closed door. Fortunately Jack isn’t around to smirk at you, nor is Cas, who’s probably still just as awake. But before you have time to wonder what the hell Dean is hiding in his room, he pulls open the door.

And you squeak with delight. You’d forgotten that earlier today, Sam mentioned Dean ran off with strands of lights. Here’s the result; he’s strung the colorful glowing things all across the ledge behind his bed. Further up, on one of the hooks where he usually keeps his weapons stash, he’s hung a lit wreath with a ridiculous red velvet bow. The whole place is sparkling-clean, unlike a few months back, with all the debris of being cooped up in here.

Dean scratches the back of his neck, standing aside so you can come on in. His jacket and button-down are gone, too, so his biceps fill out the short sleeves of his black tee. “You like it? I thought—I dunno. We never actually get the chance to mess with real holiday cheer, so. . .”

“It’s perfect.” The usual lights are off, so the holiday lights cast the place in a downright romantic luminescence. “When did you do this?”

“Before we left this morning.” His throat pulls up. He shuts the door. “I hoped. . . I dunno.”

You deposit your bag on the desk chair, turning back to him. “You wanted to share this with me?”

“Well, yeah.” He’s smiling again, bashful. “Was tryin’a figure out how I could get you to come hang out. Binge some movies. Maybe fall asleep on my bed this time.”

You snort. “Wouldn’t have taken much.”

“Starting to see that.” He’s searching your eyes, his own reflecting all the splendor back at you. He says, thick, “I wanna get you out of those clothes.”

You come closer, threading your fingers through his. “I can arrange that.”

The two of you work each other’s duds off slowly, getting lost in bunched-up fabric, sliding hands over curves and skin, panting into greedy kisses as you go. He breaks away to reach into his nightstand and comes up with a condom, tossing it onto his bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress in his blue boxer briefs and tugs you to stand between his thighs. You’re down to bra and panties, and he can’t stop staring at you open, unguarded hunger.

For a moment all you can do is just touch him, tracing your hands over his freckled gold skin, the curves and dips of his muscles, shadowed in the low lights. His tattoo stands out against it all, _way_ more gorgeous than it has any right to be, and his—hey. Hold up. “Dean?” You take his right arm, turning it, trying to see more. “What happened to the scar?”

He frowns, looking. Then turns to his other arm, like the scar could’ve migrated. When he looks back up at you, his eyes are wide. “It’s gone.”

“You didn’t feel it like—disappear, or—?”

“Nothin’.” Dean thumbs over where it used to be, and—oh, _guh,_ there go his shoulders and arms, looking huger and hotter than ever. “Maybe Michael getting Gruber’d just. . .”

“. . . got rid of it.” You look at each other in wonder, and you touch the side of his face. “God, you really are free of that dickhead now.”

“Thanks to you,” he says, and it’s so gutted that it turns your heart over. “Without you—kid, he woulda got back inside my head, and I—I don’t ever know if I woulda come back out.”

“Well, he didn’t.” You press your forehead to his and rest your wrists on his shoulders. “Promised you I wouldn’t let him.”

He croaks a desperate, grateful little noise. It’s all the invitation you need.

You climb up into his lap and he falls back onto the bed. You kiss him, hands planted on the mattress, and his own big, callused palms settle onto your hips and smooth up your back. He unclasps your bra and tosses it away, and then fills his hands with your breasts, moaning into the soft pluck of your kisses. You arch against his hands, gasping as he rolls your nipples between the sides of his fingers, jolting when he tweaks them a little. “Yeah,” he says, grinning up at you as you break off to pant, “knew that’d be a winner.”

The whimper you respond with just makes him try harder, his thumbs now roaming in teasing circles against your nipples, and he grunts when your hips jolt again, totally involuntary. “Hell yes,” he whispers, pulling the exact same thumb move once more, “let’s get more of _that_.”

You shiver, now angling your hips down, practically grinding yourself against the silky solidness of his dick through his boxer briefs. God, he feels _good_ , sending feathery bursts of pleasure between your entrance and your clit. You’re so wet by now that you wouldn’t be surprised if Dean’s undies showed the evidence, in better light. But you need more—so much more. You take one of Dean’s hands from your breasts and tug it down. Beneath your panties.

His eyes practically roll back in his head as two of his fingers slip between your spread-wide folds and finds the wetness there. “ _God_ ,” he groans, looking up at you with wide, dark eyes, “no wonder you’re already jonesing for it. You been good and ready since we got started.”

“Nnnh.” His fingertips are warm and shockingly bare, so dextrous in the way they flex and search that you twitch into the touch. “Dean, I—please.”

“You want somethin’ inside you, huh.” His other hand comes up to your hair, threading into it, tugging your forehead down to his again. “You wanna ease that ache.”

You whimper, but when he still just—just _teases_ your clit—you grab his wrist again and pull him further back, and _in_.

Both of you gasp, which turns into groans, and his own hips roll up to meet yours. “Fuck,” he pants, “ah, fuck, you know I can’t wait for you after a move like that.” His fingers curl and twist inside you, his whole hand tugging hard at your panties.

“Please,” you whisper. Your thighs are shaking, holding you up. “Dean, I need you. Need to feel you.”

“I’m with you.” He tugs you down for a kiss, deep for all it’s brief. “Let’s do this.”

He helps you up; you end up sitting on his thighs once his boxer briefs fall to the ground. He tears open the condom and _whoa_ , his fingers are shaky too, and—watching him roll it on is obscene. He’s thick and ruddy, standing between the both of you, wet at the slit, and he actually whimpers when you gently brush the backs of your fingers against the silken-solid length of him. “Fuck,” he grits through his teeth. “Ah, fuck.”

Condom on finally, he looks up at you, eyes big and wrecked. “How you wanna—?”

But you’re already lifting yourself up. “Don’t move,” you whisper, braced above him, one hand beneath yourself to guide him to you. “If that’s okay.”

He hides his face in your neck, his fingers bumping yours around his dick. “So friggin’ beyond okay.”

The first touch of him against your slick entrance sends a wave of heat rippling through your belly, and you gasp, thighs shivering. “Take your time,” he whispers, “you just go at your own pace, all right, I’ll be here,” and so you do, easing down just enough for him to slip inside and stay.

He lets out a choked noise of desperation, his brows slanting together as he pulls back to look at you. His hands stroke up your sides, and then his arms band all the way around your back. “God, that’s it.”

You slip down a little more, relaxing the further you go, and—you gasp as the bottoms of your thighs touch the top of his, and he moans full and deep, his eyes wide. “Holy shit,” you pant, crushing your forehead to his. Your mouths brush, slack and soft and open. “ _Dean_.”

“Yeah.” His hips spasm up, back down. He pulls your body flush against him, the warmth of his belly and chest against yours, your nipples teased on the sparseness of his chest hair, his arms and shoulders engulfing you. “Fuck, I’m— _ungh_.”

You nod and work yourself back up. Then back down. Arousal sparks and shivers against your walls, everywhere he touches. Totally aware of the desperate sounds you’re making, you do it again. And again. He works with you, starting sinuous rolls of his hips up as you come back down, down as you come back up, his arms still braced around your back, mouths still plucking at one another’s.

He’s starting to sweat, and damn, so are you. It should probably be awful but instead it just makes everything that much more real and close, that much more raw. When the kiss breaks off, you mouth up under his jaw, nipping at the bolt of it, his stubble rasping against your lips.

“Fuck,” you whisper, sitting back down on his thighs. You’re panting. “I can’t. . .”

He’s piling your hair over his hands. “Tell me whatcha need.”

“Faster,” you whisper, shuddering, clenching around the length of him. “Harder.”

He smiles up at you. “We can do that.”

And then he’s stretching out on his back, tugging you down with him so that you’re chest to chest overtop of him, knees still wide open around his hips, elbows on the mattress on either side of his head. His hands come down to steady your waist. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “I gotcha.”

Then he thrusts up into you, quick and hard enough to bounce your hips. When he eases back out, it takes you back with him—until he snaps his hips in again and they smack into your own. Already he’s working into a rhythm, and pleasure rushes through you, swirling in your lower belly, intensifying against the fast, hard, slick-frictioned pull of him. “Yeah?” he whispers as you whimper, rocking back to meet him.

“Fuck yes.” You flinch as two of his fingers find your clit again and start circling. “Oh, god— _yeah_ —Dean, please— _ahh_ —”

“C’mon,” he groans, and then groans your name, too, wracked with desperation, “god, yes, lemme feel you.” His mouth brushes your own, his arm now looped around your lower back to pull himself in, over and over and over. Here it comes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you gasp as it hits, voice pitching higher than you thought it could even _go_ , “oh, fuck yes,” and you gasp as bliss tears through you, conducted off the frantic circles of his fingertips, rushing in heated swirls as you clench around him, your thighs trembling as he works his hips up hard and plunges in _deep_ , totally falling out of his rhythm as he comes.

His chest heaves as you both come back down. “God,” he rumbles, taking his arm between you away to flop it around your back, “c’mere.” He tugs you down and you all but crash onto him, your skin tacky with sweat, but it doesn’t bother him. Or you. “Holy shit,” he gasps against your ear, even as you bury your face in his neck. “That—you— _ungh_.” His hips twitch with an aftershock, and you shiver.

“That was. . .” You’re nearly slurring. All the suppressed exhaustion is suddenly catching up to you. “You’re pretty good at this, Dean. Dunno if you’re aware.”

“Nope.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Haven’t checked my Yelp page in awhile.”

You snort, giggling into his neck. You struggle back up to your elbows to look him in the eye. “Five outta five stars. Would come again.”

Now he’s the one laughing, tilting his head away with it, and the joy when he comes back—it fills you to the brim with joy to match. He threads a hand into your hair again and pulls you down into a smiling, laughing kiss.

By the time you settle in, it’s nearly five in the morning. “Not even gonna bother with an alarm,” he mutters into your hair, arm tucked firmly around your waist to hold you against him. “We get up when we get up.”

“Second best idea I’ve heard all day,” you agree, nuzzling into his pillow. You’re so close, the fronts of his knees are tucked into the backs of yours. “G’night, Dean.”

He kisses the back of your neck, a sleepy, tender little press that lingers. He noses there, too, and it occurs to you that he’s wanted to do this as long as you have, if not longer. “G’night, kid.”

 

*

 

Dean nearly burns the flapjacks, he’s so caught up in kissing you, and only breaks apart when you insist, “Pancakes— _Dean_ —!” And he goes back to the griddle with an ear-to-ear grin just as Sam comes in still half asleep, draped in a robe with his hair at insane angles.

“Well, well, well,” crows Dean, winking at you as Sam grumbles his hellos. “Can’t even remember the last time you slept past nine, Sammy.”

Sam’s mashing a hand over one eye as he goes for the coffee. “How the hell are you even awake?”

“It’s Christmas morning,” says Dean. He shovels the pancakes onto a plate. “We got masses to feed.”

“He thinks he’s gonna feed the whole bunker,” you tell Sam, who’s pouring coffee now. “Already sent out a few batches with Cas.”

“We’re gonna need another,” says Cas, appearing again with an empty serving dish. He looks decidedly dressed down without his jackets. His tie is loose, too. He sets the dish on the island and heads to the kitchen table to perch until the next batch.

“Nnrgh,” says Sam. He sits heavily across from Cas. “So that’s why it’s busy out there.”

“Good morning.” Jack’s coming into the kitchen now, wearing a big plaid scarf over his tee and jeans. He’s beaming at Sam, going to sit beside him. “This is perfect,” he says, gesturing to the scarf. “Thank you.”

Sam lifts his coffee, summoning a smile. “Hey, no problem.”

“It suits you,” Cas says warmly.

“You two got him something?” Dean’s looking up from spooning more batter onto the griddle. It hisses and crackles.

“The tag said it’s from all of you,” says Jack, squinting. Sam and Cas give Dean a significant look.

“Oh, uh—yeah,” says Dean, turning back to the pancakes, pink-cheeked. “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

You go to stand beside him, leaning in. “Smooth.”

Dean snorts. “Guess I ain’t winning any dad of the year awards over here.”

“I’d still nominate you.”

“So,” says Jack, and you two glance back at him. His brows are up expectantly, and you have time to think _oh no_ before he says, “How was the sex?”

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, lurching against the mug so it slops over his hand. Cas buries his face his his palm.

“Uh,” says Dean.

“We,” you try, and fail.

“Jack,” rasps Sam, coffee dripping off his fingers, “you can’t just _ask_ people that.”

“Why not?” Jack’s smirking a little, though. “Loud as they were, you’d think they’d want everyone to know.”

Cas emerges from behind is hand to mutter, “He’s got a point.”

“Oh, Jesus.” You turn away to laugh, mortified, cheeks burning hot as that griddle. You tug the spatula out of Dean’s slack grip to start flipping those flapjacks. “We _cannot_ have been that loud.”

“If it helps,” says Sam, “I didn’t hear anything.”

Dean’s still frozen in place, hand gripping the air like the spatula never left.

“I’m not sure it helped,” says Cas.

“I think you guys broke Dean,” you point out.

“We ain’t talking about this,” says Dean, shaking himself. “Jack, you can ask your other dads why. I’m elbow-deep in breakfast, here.” He glances at you, then, one brow up. All mischievous.

You lean around him. “It was _great_ ,” you announce, and Sam’s dimples of disappointment flare while Jack laughs and Cas just turns his eyes heavenward.

Dean’s last batch of pancakes is just for the two of you. He gets some bacon going, and fries up some eggs while he’s at it. You sip coffee and just hang with him, helping when he needs it but mostly just watching, admiring the curve of his ass through his plaid sleep pants, the way his arms really do fight the sleeves of his black tee.

But when at last you both settle in at the kitchen table, he forks at his eggs and doesn’t look up. He says, light and easy, “So, you, ah. You gonna stick around for awhile?”

Oh, god—all this, and he’s still nervous you’re gonna leave. You put your coffee down to reach out and squeeze his fingers. “Yeah, I’m gonna stick around for awhile.” You gulp, and meet his hopeful eyes. “Dean, you’re it for me, too, you know.”

Breakfast is going cold by the time he's done kissing you.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> yell with me on tumblr @[sp-oops](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com)


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